CONCORD MODEL FLYING CLUB
South Darenth · Kent
BMFA Registration: 0060
My First Year At Concord
Introduction and Apology
Greetings fellow modellers. What follows is a 'diary' of my first year of actual flying. I use the term actual because I'm not exactly new to the hobby; I've been interested in all things R/C since I was a child and I built my first plane from a kit more than fifteen years ago even though I only flew it earlier this year. Well, I've never been one of those hotheads who rush straight into things...
The reason that I say 'diary' in quotes is that I don't wish to imply that I've been stringently recording my antics over the last twelve months because this whole article relies on my substandard memory. Had I had the forethought I'd have written everything down and then I'd have been able to add dates to the entries and guarantee they were correctly ordered. Unfortunately I didn't so you'll all have to live with my slapdash approach or alternatively you could try this much more professional effort.
There is (at least) one member of our club that I know of who records every successful flight in a log book. I can't help feeling that he'd be better off recording the unsuccessful flights - there'd be less writing. Unless of course you happen to be Aaron.
The long first walk
I still remember my first trip to the flying field. I didn't have a key for the gate but rather than park next to it and be thought of as rational I decided that a much better idea would be to park in Dartford and walk from there. Well in truth I actually parked in South Darenth but it felt like it had been Dartford by the time I had trekked along the public footpath through the fields to the patch. In my opinion 100 yards is about the maximum that you should reasonably be expected to walk without either a dog or a rambling association by your side.
A few months ago flying was ceased temporarily whilst a huge stream of children and their associated minders walked the very same path that I had trodden on that first day. It turned out to be the annual jamboree of the local Scouts and Guides and I'm pleased to say that from the several hundred youngsters that walked past the bottom of the patch three boys took an interest in my models and I spent five minutes or so answering their questions. It gave me some pleasure that children still exist that are polite, intelligent and interested in R/C models. My kids certainly aren't.
How to win friends and influence people
I had proudly made my buddy lead all by myself because I wasn't prepared to spend £15 on a shop-bought one when I could roll my own for
£20. Having done extensive no research I decided that 15m was about the right length - that's nearly 50ft to those of you that
don't have your own teeth. Now I suspect that there was a fair amount of chuckling about that at my expense but at least my instructors could sit
in the pits and eat their lunch whilst training me.
It became obvious to me that it would have to be made shorter when I found myself communicating largely by sign language so after advice from several of the 'regulars' I settled for a much friendlier 5m length and now I know all the instructors by their first names. Of course I get less time on the sticks now than I used to because the close proximity of other club members means that I have to have a wash in the morning before I go flying.
I get my own key. And a certificate
So I finally passed my 'A' certificate.
In fairness I did have to wait a little while for the actual certificate because a certain examiner who shall remain nameless (I doubt that I could spell Brylowski anyway) went to the trouble of taking all my details before inadvertently having his wife wash them along with his trousers. Not a problem for me at all, although I can't help feeling that had they been the name, address and membership number of Claudia Schiffer they would never have had to face the wrath of the spin cycle.
In the immortal words of the CFI: "You are now certified to fly. And also to crash." Now I've passed my 'A' test I intend to proceed with my 'B' certificate so that I can crash even more. Plus I now have the advantage that I have letters after my name. Sounds good doesn't it: G.Weller BMFAA.
Front falls off my trainer
I had thought the plane was vibrating somewhat on the way out to the patch so I was not entirely surprised when after a largely uneventful flight and textbook landing the front fell off it. Now I don't mind confessing that it was a big deal to me at the time for two reasons. Firstly being a novice I'd actually done a pre-flight check and still managed to miss the fact that the firewall looked like it had been fitted by Italian car mechanics using chewing gum. More importantly though it was my first 'incident' and I suppose that in those early days I thought that if a plane survived the first few flights intact then it would never need further maintenance.
The front has fallen off again since then, although not because of a failure in my original repair (honest!). I think that when I finally come to repair it again it might be easier for the future if I reattach the firewall using a hinge and a magnetic fastener. I suppose that if I ever come to sell it I could describe it as having a retractable front undercarriage and thrust vectoring.
Dead stick / Dead Pilot (nearly)
I'll be honest: I never considered model flying as a fitness sport. We had been practising dead stick landings and I was being taught how to weave left and right to lose speed. Now my old OS40 doesn't really do idle - it only does flat-out or off, so dead-sticks are usually the real thing even when you are practising. Unfortunately after the third attempt or so there was a 'misunderstanding' between me and my instructor about which way was left and which was right and I managed to weave in the shape of a 'P' rather than the more traditional 'S'. I received full marks for the amount of speed I had managed to bleed off but none for the direction in which I did it. Consequently my aircraft disappeared silently over the trees and into the distance.
Colin was immediately off over the fields like a greyhound with me trailing in his wake. By the time that we had found my plane I was seeing stars and barely able to breath. I actually had stiff legs the following day. I would suggest to all newcomers that they pick their instructors with care; unless you want a rigorous workout in the event of a problem I suggest that you pick one that is less fit than you are. I'm sure that other club members will be more than happy to help you identify the most suitable candidates.
For those that are interested we eventually found the trainer sitting on all three wheels in the middle of a ploughed field. It hadn't even nosed-over, from which we conclused that it had probably flared perfectly on landing before gently lowering the nose wheel. So in the end it turned out to be one of my better landings and it was completely unsighted. With that in mind I always land with my eyes shut these days.
A strange thing happened on TV last night
Radio-controlled modelling is finally in the spotlight where it belongs - mainstream TV. I'm referring to the TV advert where the man allows his complete novice of a girlfriend to fly his model in the park and is surprised when she 'parks' it nose-first into the ground at 80mph. Oh the discussions we had about that down the field: "Surely if she had kept the sticks both pressed forward like that the plane would've done an outside loop rather than going straight in" "He shouldn't have been flying an I.C. model in the park anyway" "Phwoar, she can crash my plane any day". Can anyone remember what they were advertising though? Thought not.
The death of an old friend. RIP LowBoy 5
It is common knowledge that in prison everyone says they are innocent. I suspect that the same is true in modelling when crashes occur except that instead of blaming bent coppers, inept barristers and biased juries we fall back on radio interference, black wire corrosion and freak localised weather (FLW). For those of you that are unaware of the effects of FLW I'll explain; it is weather that is so local that despite your best efforts it causes your aircraft (and only your aircraft) to behave in a manner that cannot be explained by other means, and certainly not by pilot error.
Whatever the factors that caused my lovingly-built-from-scratch Precedent LowBoy to plough into the ground at 40mph the result was never really in doubt. My Dad, who was with me at the time, did cheer me up briefly with his unbounded optimism. "Do you think that it will be OK?" he asked. But it wasn't OK. Had the plane had a pilot I'm pretty sure that he would only have been identifiable via his dental records.
So that's why my LowBoy died at the ripe old age of fifteen; definitely not pilot error, but probably interference, black wire corrosion and possibly a bit of FLW as well. Oh, and bent coppers.
I nearly died but couldn't be bothered
There we were the two of us, sitting on our camping chairs in the glorious summer sun enjoying our sandwiches and coffee when from nowhere came a rogue prangster. I don't mean the Jeremy Beadle sort of prangster that has a cheeky grin, a disguise and a TV film crew but rather the type that is easy to fly, virtually indestructible and has the equivalent of two knives spinning in front at 10,000 RPM.
The odd thing is that despite our impending doom neither of us really moved. I don't think that it was bravery that kept us from diving for cover - it was a mixture of surprise and outright apathy. It may be a product of my very British upbringing but the notion of wasting perfectly good food and drink when there are people starving in the world fought and defeated any reflex to dive to safety. The irony is that if I'd dived to my left it would've hit me.
I suppose I can count myself lucky. On another day it could've hit me where I sat and killed me, or worse still I could have lost my coffee and sandwiches.
So what have I learned?
Since I've passed my 'A' certificate we can assume that I've learned a bit about flying but in fairness I'd assumed that would be the case from the outset. A casual observer may conclude that model flying is all about the thrill of controlling a real flying machine, of modelling the world in miniature or even just meeting with like-minded souls who share a passion for aviation.
For me it is about seeing how long you can go between crashes, and how well you can laugh it off when it happens. Somewhere on YouTube is a compilation of R/C crashes involving gas turbine-powered aircraft. About a minute in there's one particular shot of a man with a number 14 on his back who has just converted a perfectly good jet fighter back into a kit. If you ever wanted a graphic illustration of pain then his face is it.
There seems to be a slight delay before he realises that a) it was his fault, b) it is going to cost him a lot of money and c) he is going to have to explain it all to his wife, assuming he has one. I'm not sure just how many of us can afford to run a gas turbine-powered model and a wife.
Reflections on my first year
I realise now that model flying is like Marmite; most people seem to either love it or hate it. Well perhaps hate is too strong a word but I've yet to meet anyone who is prepared to talk casually to me about it at parties. I've given up trying to impress my kids with my antics and tales of derring-do; they look at me with a mixture of disinterest and pity.
Still it's not all bad news. My wife wants a Picoo Z for Christmas but I suspect that she is going to be disappointed when she discovers that it is a tiny foam radio-controlled electric helicopter and not an Italian sports car.
Incidentally I entered a competition a while back and won a year's supply of Marmite: one jar.
And Finally...
It's time to finish now so all that remains is to thank you for reading this far, unless of course you started from the bottom
of the document in which case you should probably quit now and end on a high. For those that are disappointed, I'm very sorry;
for those that found it light on content or badly written, I look forward to seeing your efforts soon; and for anyone that
actually enjoyed it I am reliably informed that the modern equivalent of the full frontal lobotomy still exists. It's called reality TV...
All the very best,
Guy
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